


My Best Friend's Wedding

by Nik



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nik/pseuds/Nik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Merlin announces that he's set to marry, Arthur conveniently decides that he wants Merlin for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Best Friend's Wedding](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5534) by Ronald Bass. 



> This very much follows the plot of the film 'My Best Friend's Wedding' even though I'm not all too sure how I am going to wrap it up, if I ever have the nerve to finish. There will be similarities, but I will try to keep it original - aside from the very obvious scenes.
> 
> I own nothing, neither Merlin or My Best Friend's Wedding. That which you recognise is more than probably not mine, and I will not claim it for myself. If there's anything else, then call me up on it.

If asked, Arthur Pendragon wouldn't be able to tell you when exactly he had agreed to have dinner with Gwen and Lance. He had his suspicions, of course, that they had bullied him into it with their big eyes and their pretty faces, and he would say that it was for that very reason he found himself sitting around their dinner table, drinking and talking and drinking some more and trying to change the direction of their conversation with a loud and hearty ' _I want to hear about everything about your new job Lance, right down to the company that clean their offices!'_ every time that Gwen tried to ask him if he had met anybody that they needed to be introduced to, or when she tried to say something that started off suspiciously like _isn't it time that you made an effort to settle down, Arthur?_

Because, apparently, Arthur Pendragon was a cause for concern, and his friends—who had a knack for making him feel guilty for things that, really, were not his fault—were worried about him and his lifestyle.

“What about that nightmare from your father’s annual dinner party?” Lance asked once he had successfully managed to tip the conversation in favour of their obvious, bloody annoying worries that they needed to take _somewhere else_.

“Vivian?” Arthur asked disinterestedly as he stabbed at the meat on his plate a little menacingly with his fork.

“Blonde,” Gwen offered. “The pretty rich girl.”

“They’re all pretty rich girls when my father has something to do with it,” Arthur muttered.

“Whatever, mate,” Lance laughed. “What happened to her?”

“We had one wild night, Lance. _One_ night.”

“Yeah, well,” Lance sighed dreamily, because he was a firm believer in that true love stuff, and he had the purest, noblest heart that Arthur had ever had the misfortune know. Arthur couldn't even tease him about it. Lance had found a life with Gwen, after all. “You know as well as I that _one wild night_ can lead to a lot of things.”

“Not with her,” Arthur scoffed, remembering the so-called wild night that had lacked everything Arthur ever admitted himself to wanting, because he was actually a sucker for that true love stuff, too, although nobody would ever know it. “I woke up and she’d planned the next five years of our life.”

Gwen’s eyebrows shot half-way up her forehead. “A five-year plan? How original.”

“It could only ever be a five-year plan with Vivian,” Arthur said. He reluctantly put his fork down and opted for to busy his hands with his drink instead of splitting Gwen’s plate with his repetitive stabbing of the fork. “She’d trick me into not signing one of those handy pre-nuptials and then she’d scarper with more than half of my life, my lawyer, probably a few of my rich rugby friends, and she would probably take my balls, too.”

“Oh, ew, Arthur.”

Arthur threw Gwen an apologetic grin, without calling her up on the fact that she had seen the testicles in question. “Sorry, but she would.”

“So no Vivian then,” Lance said, and thankfully he didn't mention that he had seen Arthur's bollocks, too.

Nevertheless, Arthur pulled a face. Vivian really had been quite the nightmare, and more. “Nah. Disappointing, isn’t it?”

“What about Sophia?”

“Don’t even go there, Lance. It’s best that you don’t know. Merlin was picking up the pieces for months.”

Gwen suddenly seemed very interested in the conversation again, and she leant forward, all but staring into the very depths of Arthur’s soul. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as she said, “Merlin the gorgeous writer?”

“Mmm,” Arthur hummed, swirling the remains of his wine in his glass absently.

“We met him, once, do you remember, Lance?”

“Everybody’s met him only once,” Arthur said in what he probably thought was a reassuring manner, as if he had to console Gwen all because she barely knew one of the most important people in Arthur’s life. Gwen took pride on knowing _everybody_.

“I’ve met him twice,” Lance said, as if it were something to be proud of—and it was, Arthur thought; Merlin was restless and unpredictable and, other than Hunith, it was only Arthur who managed to keep a firm grip on the man.

“Be glad you survived,” Arthur said. "Merlin generally tends to leave an imprint on everything and everyone he touches, and it takes forever to recover. He’s all ears and cheekbones and long limbs and generally hard to ignore, y'know?" Arthur's voice dropped, but dammit, it was not with fondness. Well, maybe. "He's... a character, to say the least. Still, he's my best mate. Somebody has to love the idiot.”

For some reason, Guinevere looked as if she had struck gold. Her eyes were shining and somehow _pleased_ as she said, “Why, Arthur, I think that’s the most you’ve said all night!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Lance as if to say _Control your damn wife_ , and he tried once more to take the spotlight off himself. “I would have said more if you actually told me about this promotion your husband has supposedly been handed on a silver platter. I’m a great businessman; I can talk to extraordinary lengths about hole-punchers and biro pens.”

“You can’t get off that easy, mate. Wasn’t Merlin the one you had the pact with?”

Arthur swallowed thickly; more gulped audibly than anything else. He couldn’t remember ever telling Lance about his pact with Merlin, and he resolved right there on the spot to never, ever drink again, because drunken confessions were _bad._ “You really are grillin’ me tonight, huh?”

Gwen and Lance grinned unabashedly, and Gwen said, 

“Well, we hardly ever see you these days.”

Just as Lance said, 

“It is Merlin the writer with the pact, right?”

“Er—right.”

“What pact?” Gwen asked.

Lance smirked. “Tell her about the pact, Arthur. Give her a laugh.”

Arthur scowled and tried to think of the easiest, quickest way to explain, as well as the easiest, quickest way to change the topic. Again. “Me and Merlin... I mean, Merlin and I, we had this, _thing_ , you know...”

“Relationship?”

Arthur smiled slightly in spite of himself. “Erm, yeah. Well. Uh. It never worked. Obviously. I broke—well, we had... I'd... and we've been... I mean, he's been my best friend for years, and one night we were horribly drunk, and—the idiot—he takes his hand, _slices_ his finger open with his razor, does the same to me, and he says, ‘Swear it, Arthur, if by the time we’re 28 and we’re not married, we marry each other.’”

Gwen looked as if she were somewhere between appalled and brilliantly awed. “He cut _your finger open?”_

“Oh, yeah. I told you he leaves an impression. Anyway, we never spoke of it again. I don’t even remember telling Lance.”

“I’m grateful. You don’t remember half of our, uhm, drunken conversations,” Lance said nervously, with a funny little grin to Gwen. “We don’t have them anymore.”

“Yeah, well, we would. I used to see you plenty before you ran away to Vegas and got hitched.”

Gwen’s eyes softened, as they usually did when she remembered What Happened in Vegas.

“Nice one,” Lance mouthed silently at him, because it was a fool-proof way to shut Gwen up for at least fifteen minutes while she blushed and smiled to herself. The two men grinned at each other and took the opportunity to finish their meal without any other type of conversation.

By the time Guinevere had snapped out of her dream and had finished glossing over the finer details of her small wedding ceremony in the tackiest chapel in Vegas, Arthur was very nearly sloshed on the wine that Lance had been tipping relentlessly into his glass and it provided him with a very good reason to be excused.

“Thanks for dinner, Gwen.”

“Oh, no problem! I’m just so glad that you could make it.”

Arthur tried not to shuffle under the gaze of her big eyes and pretty face, recalling a theory that had something to do with guilt, he couldn’t quite remember, and nodded. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” he mumbled in a small voice.

She cupped his cheek and smiled softly. “Don’t take so long next time, alright?”

“Alright.”

“C’mon, mate,” Lance said, clapping Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ll walk you down to your cab.”

“Thanks again,” Arthur called as he was hustled out of the doorway of the flat, and then he and Lance (who was almost as sloshed as Arthur was) were patting backs and grinning and Lance was pushing Arthur into the back of the cab.

“Find someone and then you won’t have to suffer through dinners alone, ‘kay?” Lance grinned through the open window. “Ring Merlin. I’d like to see him again. Call him up on your pact. Seriously, mate. Be happy. You deserve it.”

“If he’s still on the planet, then yeah, maybe,” Arthur said uncomfortably, the way he did when Lance got serious. Today, though, he didn’t have the energy to read Lance’s tone or the strange expression on his face. It usually meant that Lance was thinking about something Very Important and that everybody needed to Listen Up.

“Alright, mate, safe journey.”

“Later,” Arthur said, and then gave the cab driver his address, shared a tipsy smile with Lance, and leant back into his seat and wondered what hotel Merlin was calling home for tonight.

 

***

 

 _Liverpool,_ said Merlin’s voice through his phone. He’d left a voicemail while Lance had been taking advantage of Gwen’s distraction and getting Arthur drunk. _I’ve dumped myself into a crappy Premier Inn for the night—we can’t all stay in Marriott’s like Your Lordship, can we? It’s been months since I’ve listened to you rage about bad room service. I can’t wait to talk to you. Just... call me, will you? Please. I miss you. I don’t think I can handle having a better relationship with your voicemail than I do with you. Call. Seriously. Middle of the night, crack of dawn, but nowhere in between otherwise I will string you up by your dick and you will never—_

Arthur smiled to himself, again, after listening to the message for the fourth time in a row. Merlin rarely managed to finish speaking before the service cut his voicemail off.

It was 11:47pm. It wasn’t the middle of the night or anywhere in between the crack of dawn, so Arthur figured that it was safe to call.

He would have called 'anywhere in between', anyway, because Arthur hadn't been able to stop bloody thinking of their bloody pact, and bloody hell, he was 28 in two months, and _—_

A tired, drugged voice answered, but Arthur couldn’t feel guilty for waking him up. He never did, because Merlin didn’t have those big eyes and pretty face like Gwen and Lance did. And, well, because it was _Merlin_. “’Lo?”

“What do you mean, a better relationship with my bloody voicemail?” Arthur demanded, but there was no bite behind it. “I’ll have you know that I am brilliant at keeping in—“

“’Lo, Arthur,” Merlin managed through a laugh, and Arthur couldn’t help but grin because Merlin suddenly sounded so damn awake and so damn happy to hear from his best friend. “Where'dya go, Pendragon? I miss you. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for _weeks_ , you prat. _Weeks._ I've lost count.”

“If you left a message with my PA, _Merlin_ , then—“

“I refuse to talk to that troll.”

Arthur laughed. "She's not that bad, she's just a little—"

“Arthur, she’s an actual troll. I’d rather have this fling I've got going on with your voicemail than speak to Catrina. Well, it’s not really a fling, we’re more like best friends if truth be—“

“You’re _my_ best friend!”

"Your voicemail seems to believe otherwise. Anyway. Look, I have to ask you something really important, and if you turn me down, I dunno what I'll do," Merlin said, and Arthur tried to ignore the way Merlin's voice was shaking and the way he was stumbling over his words. Was this it? "I'd probably throw myself off The White Cliffs of Dover if I ever manage to wind up there, probably, and—"

“You better not go to Dover,” Arthur cut in just as nervously, but Merlin laughed.

“Oh, I will, because if you—“

“No, no, no, if I could just tell you one thing first,” Arthur interrupted, because if he lost his wits now, then he would be forever doomed, and he would throw himself off the Cliffs first. “Uh. Well. This is probably going to hand you the biggest laugh of your adult life, I’m sure, but I was thinking about you and—“

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut up Merlin.”

Merlin scoffed loudly into the phone. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Lips are sealed. I still have something important to tell you.”

“Me first. Well, uh, I was thinking... about you, you know, and I was remembering this, uh, unbelievably insane night we spent in Gloucester... What? Dunno, a thousand years ago? And, and, you probably won’t remember, but—“

“Are you kidding?” Merlin interrupted again. His laugh was soft and lovely and everything Arthur wanted, but he still wouldn't admit it. “I think about that night all the time,” Merlin said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. But that’s not why I called.”

“It’s not,” Arthur whispered in one heavy breath.

“Arthur. I called because I met someone.”

“Well. That’s... great,” Arthur managed, and his voice high and unsure and _goddamn Merlin_. “That’s great, because y-you really haven’t seen anybody since Fruit Loop Freya.”

“Oh, her. Nah. This is... Arthur, you don’t understand, I’ve never felt this way before,” Merlin gushed. “I mean, he’s all wrong for me...”

“Huh,” Arthur huffed. “There’s a good start.”

"Well. Gwaine’s just finished his last year of university. You’ll love him. He’s amazing. His dad’s a billionaire, so you have something in common, right? He owns one of those companies who owns freakin' football clubs, and I hate football, you know I do, but Christ, he’s fucking rich, Arthur, I mean, nothing like you, of course, but owning a football club? Yeah, I know, but.."

Arthur had stopped listening. He was currently figuring out how to subtly ruin every football club in all of England, except Chelsea, and damn the consequences whether they be the only premier league team to play ever again. Ever. He would break every leg of every single—

“And you know I’ve always been uncomfortable around rich people, but they’re not like that, not like all of your dad’s snotty mates. They’re brilliant people, really.”

“So... you... you’ve met his parents.”

“Yeah!”

Arthur was steadily running out of air, he was sure of it. 

"Arthur," Merlin said before Arthur could form a coherent reply. "I'm getting married. This Sunday. Me. Married."

Arthur seized up and looked for the closest bin to hurl into, even though he was in the middle of his kitchen and it was his flat and he knew that he should know—but bloody hell—oh, shit, where was the bin?

“Arthur? Are you there? Hello? Arthur, talk to me.”

“Merlin. Merlin,” Arthur said, and he was pretty sure that he tripped over the open dishwasher, but the pain didn’t register, not did the clatter of pans behind him. “It’s Wednesday. Fucking hell. It’s Wednesday night, Merlin. How can you _possibly_ get married on Sunday?”

"What's going on? It sounds like a warzone. Where are you?"

"Forget about—what—fucking hell Ems—married on Sunday?" Arthur demanded.

"Actually, it starts tomorrow. It’s one of these four-day things. I know, it means attention, and stuff, but he wants this so badly, and his parents and my mum, I swear, Arthur, they’re in cahoots, I know it. My mum's on the phone to them all the time."

Of course. Good old Hunith. The fucking traitor. Arthur had always been able to count on Hunith to gang up on Merlin, but clearly no longer. Arthur was on his own, here.

"It's all traditional," Merlin continued on. "There's all the wedding events, and stuff, and he’s got everyone flying in. I know it's not exactly traditional, gay couple an' all, but they're going all out. They're all so damn excited...”

"Okay. Yeah, fine, whatever, but aren’t you working this weekend?" Arthur was ready to try anything now he'd clearly lost the support of his best friend's mother. Women. "I mean, is it really responsible of you?"

“I’ve got it all sorted. I’ve done my interviews, because _The Times_ has got me writing a profile on—wait, what do you mean, _responsible?_ I’m taking a weekend off to get married, Arthur!”

All was silent, and Arthur very nearly remembered where his bin was, and then, in a very small voice,

“Arthur. Please. I’m scared.”

“Ems... We need to talk about this...”

“No, Arthur, I need you. I need you to come and hold my hand. I need you to come. I won’t get through it otherwise. Please.”

“Well what about if we—“

“Please, Arthur,” Merlin begged, and Arthur envisioned him pacing around his small hotel room, doing the same as he: trying to find a bin to hurl into while tears stung at his eyes at the thought of his best friend not coming to _hold his fucking hand_ at his _own fucking wedding._

But Arthur had never been able to refuse Merlin anything, so why start now?


	2. Chapter 2

Clearly, desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Lance. _Lance._ "

"You alright mate?" Lance had answered on the first ring, his voice one of panic and concern. Arthur could hear Gwen murmuring in the background just as frantically, because, as he could hear her say, Arthur _never_ called, and was he okay? "Arthur? Mate, did you get home alright?"

"I bloody did it. I called him. I'm never listening to you again. I did what you bloody told me to do, all ready to say, _hey Ems, guess what, let's get hitched_ , or _something_ to that extent, and the bastard—the bastard's getting married!"

Lance exhaled, long, hard and slow and probably a little exaggerated. "Well fuck me sideways."

Arthur couldn't even bring himself to quip ' _been there done that_ ' back to him. He growled and scrubbed his free hand over his face. "Lance, a little help here!"

"Calm down. Arthur, calm down. Listen to me."

"Calm down!" Arthur cried incredulously. "Calm down! He's getting _married _ ! I need to go and... I don't know, _do_ something!"

"I think you may still be a little drunk, Arthur," Lance said—he was the voice of calm, as always, now that he was sure Arthur wasn't injured or worse. "I'd hold off doing anything until you can think clearly."

Of course he was drunk. He couldn't see straight, let alone barely stand upright, and it was becoming a chore to storm around his fancy kitchen. And, he added to himself, Lance had been the arse to pour so much wine down his throat. Of course he was drunk.

"He adored me for eleven goddamn years," Arthur continued as if Lance hadn't spoken, his hand gesturing wildly at nothing in particular to emphasise his words. " _Me_!" he cried, just as Lance muttered,

"I can see why," but Arthur didn't hear him, because he was still stomping around his kitchen and raging,

"He's known the guy, what, like  _five minutes?_ "

"Arthur, please, hold on. Think about this. What do you want?" Lance asked, and they both knew that he was asking much more; so much more than those simple words. __

"I don't fucking know. Look, the bastard is getting married on Sunday. Sunday, Lance. I need to pack. I need to plan. I need to get to the train station, preferably by 7am, because he's having this bloody wedding at fucking Cooling Castle Barn, for God's sakes, can you believe it?"

"That place in Kent?"

"Yes!" Arthur roared, hating Lance for sounding mildly impressed. "They own their mansion practically down the road! This guy's dad is a bloody billionaire!"

"So is yours."

Arthur huffed and stopped pacing around his kitchen, but only for a second, just to say, "Yeah, well, that's different."

"How?" Lance asked, sounding thoroughly amused.

" _Because_!"

"Look, Arthur, please. Calm down. It's late. You need to sleep. You're still drunk—don't even deny it, because you say 'bloody' as if it's going out of fashion when you are."

"I have no time for _sleeping_ ," Arthur said, sounding disgusted at the idea. "I'm a busy man! I have to pack—maybe create some sort of a plan while I do so, because I have to break up a wedding in four days, and I... I have no idea how I'm gonna do it."

"I suppose that's where the planning comes in," Lance commented dryly.

"Yes!" Arthur half-cheered as if Lance had provided him with a _very _ good idea. "That's _exactly_ where it comes in."

"Arthur, please," Lance tried again, sounding desperate now. "Let me do something. I can come over.”

“Lance, I’m a busy man.”

“Let me drive you tomorrow."

"To Kent?"

"Yeah. I'll drive you to Kent, if you want me to."

"The train station's fine," Arthur said, because he didn’t fancy trekking on public transport to London Victoria, nor taking his own car and paying ridiculous car parking fees.

"I'll drive you to the train station, then. Text me your train details. And Arthur..."

“What?”

"Don't do anything stupid. Pack a bag. As far as you're concerned, you're going to your best friend's wedding. Don't do _anything_."

"I can't promise you that," Arthur said heavily, thinking of the bottle of expensive whiskey on the top of his cupboard. And, then, "See you in the morning," and he all but punched the end call button.

***

When Lance picked Arthur up outside of his Richmond flat to drive him to London Victoria station, he looked rougher than Arthur felt.

"You look rough."

Lance scoffed at Arthur's nerve. "Thanks. That's what I get for sitting up half the night worrying about if you're drinking yourself into oblivion, or not."

"I thought about it," Arthur said seriously. "But I must create the best impression if I am going to win the man I love, and arriving unshaven, hungover and smelly is not the way to do it, Lancelot."

"So you're serious, then?"

Arthur fastened his seat belt and sat up, blinking furiously as if he couldn't believe Lance was asking him so. "Oh, I'm serious. I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

"Stop blinking like that. You're making _my _ eyes water."

"I'm tired. I didn't sleep. But that's okay, I can feign insomnia, perhaps get the sympathy vote. Merlin's a sucker for the sick."

Lance rolled his eyes and tried with all his might to keep both hands on the steering wheel and keep them going in a straight line. He was half-tempted to turn around and head home to chain Arthur up. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"I thought you liked romance?"

"This isn't romance, Arthur," Lance said with a chance glance to the passenger seat. "This is... Arthur, this is just unsettling."

"You know nothing, mate. Just get me to the train station."

***

While Lance had sat up half the night worrying, Arthur had spent his composing emails and leaving voice messages on Very Important People's phones, and he'd spent the other half ignoring the responses--especially the ones from his father that had begun arriving as of 4:30am (on the dot, Arthur had to point out), because Uther was an early riser and always had been, and he could not believe that his son was taking an impromptu week-long break after going three years straight without even so much as booking one day off as personal holiday.

"I'm the assistant director for crying out loud," Arthur hissed to Morgana as he sat on the train to Rochester. She'd just finished providing her somewhat detailed account of Uther Pendragon's rage in the office that morning at his son's disappearance. It included interns rushing out of the director's office crying, one broken keyboard and a client cancelling their contract during a conference call that had gone all wrong. "I can do as I bloody well please."

"Yes, I suppose you can," Morgana said idly, and Arthur pictured her spinning around on _his_ office chair, twisting a strand of hair around her index finger and grinning gleefully. "I'm proud of you, little brother, I really am—but you haven't told me where you are going and what you are doing and what hot young thing you are doing it with."

"Hot young...? Morgana, Merlin's getting married."

" _Non_!"

" _Oui_ ," Arthur said glumly. Morgana had taken to French ever since her own impromptu break in Paris, and now she fancied herself fluent despite having only retained a few choice words of the language.

"When?"

"Sunday."

" _Sunday_?"

"Oh, don't give me that. I only found out last night."

"Oh, Arthur," Morgana sighed. "I'm sorry."

Arthur frowned, his head against the cool window of the speeding train. "Why are you sorry?"

"What? I just always assumed that you and Merlin... Well, I thought that you were always, you know..."

"We're going to be," Arthur said quietly into his BlackBerry-iPhone-Android contraption he called his mobile phone after a quick look over his shoulder at his surroundings. An old man had narrowed his eyes at him, and another woman seemed to have realised what Arthur was talking about, because she looked almost sympathetic for a hard-faced British woman. "I'm going to break up this wedding," he muttered, "I'm going steal this wanker's fella— _my_  fella—and I've got exactly four days to do it."

"Arthur."

"I will, Morgs," Arthur said determinedly before she could give him a lecture on the wrongs and rights of the world, and why he was one of the wrongs. "I'm bringing him home."

"You’re _nuts_."

"Oh ye of little faith."

Morgana sighed, and Arthur thought of her pushing back his very expensive office chair and moving over the room to put her messy fingerprints all over his glass-top table. "Arthur. Please be careful."

"I'm always careful."

  


***

A 58 minute train ride allowed for a lot of thinking. By the time Arthur had stepped off the train and made his way into the busy train station, he was convinced that he was doing a good deed by saving Merlin from himself--a brilliant deed--and that Merlin would be singing his praises for years to come. If Arthur had had any shred of doubt about his supposed brilliant deed, any at all, then he was definitely thoroughly convinced by the time he spotted Merlin wafting easily through the large crowds.

He looked tired, like Arthur. He'd left Liverpool at ridiculous o'clock and had arrived in Rochester not much earlier than Arthur had. He looked tired and beautiful but completely alive and perhaps even a little overwhelmed, though maybe that was the amount of people barging past him, and Arthur wonderered what the fuck he had been doing with his life for the past eight years since they'd called off their relationship--since Arthur  had called off their relationship.

Blue eyes locked onto his, and Merlin's face split into the same gut-wrenching grin that Arthur had imagined him wearing the moment he'd picked up his mobile phone in the crappy, god-awful Premier Inn last night.

They all but ran into each other and broke each other's noses, and fucking hell, it _was not fair. _

Merlin flung his arms around Arthur's neck, who wound one arm tightly around the raven-haired man's waist and pulled him impossibly close. Merlin, as oblivious as always, laughed happily and rather loudly, his cheeks pink and his eyes dancing excitedly as they gazed at Arthur. "Can you believe I'm gonna do this?"

"Not hardly."

Merlin grinned and leant forward, hugging Arthur with what felt like every bone and knobbly knee he had. "You look tired."

"So do you," Arthur replied, squeezing his midrift.

"I had to be up early otherwise I would have never made it," Merlin said as he pulled away. He kept one arm around Arthur's neck and turned, searching, and oh God, this was it. It really was.

And sure enough, it was.

Merlin's face broke out into another grin, much like the one that Arthur was sure Merlin only ever reserved for him, but clearly didn’t, and he waved Gwaine over.

Gwaine was roguishly handsome. He was all long hair, stubble, hazel eyes and nice arms and—and Arthur hated him.

“This is Arthur,” Merlin said proudly, finally removing his arm, and Arthur tried to pretend that he didn’t sound as proud when he added, “Arthur, this is Gwaine.”

Arthur steeled himself before holding out his hand, as you do when you meet the fiancé of the man you love, but Gwaine just laughed boyishly and pulled Arthur into a hug. He was a little smaller than Arthur, and Arthur’s nose was greeted with a thick mop of soft hair, but maybe that was because this guy’s hair was so big.

Arthur must have looked bewildered, because Merlin nodded encouragingly behind Gwaine at him, and smiled, but Arthur couldn’t return it.

“So glad you could come! All Merlin ever talks about is Arthur this and Arthur that and Arthur says—it’s so great to finally meet the man!”

“I’m happy to be here,” Arthur managed weakly as Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder, not once, but twice, and then picked up his bags.

“Merls, I put your bags over here,” Gwaine said after he batted Arthur away with a _I can manage, princess,_ and he turned to Arthur again. “You should have seen him. He couldn’t sit still. He saw blonde hair and that’s it, he was gone, knocking everyone over as he went.”

Arthur caught Merlin’s eye, and Merlin shrugged casually, but unconvincingly, but maybe that was because Arthur knew what he was looking for. 

Merlin _hated_ that nickname.

... He used to, anyway.

Gwaine was grinning at Merlin. “He’s like a child, don’t you think? C’mon, let’s get out of here, crowds make me nervous.”

Merlin snickered and rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing that the whole of Ireland is flying in then, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gwaine said sincerely, and he leant forward and fixed his lips to Merlin’s. Arthur couldn't look away.

Really, he managed to think, it was all very Lancelot-like, the romance and the sincerity and the puppy looks, but then it wasn’t, and Arthur was glad it wasn’t, because Arthur actually liked Lancelot and didn’t want his friend’s image tarnished by this arsehole who had stolen his best friend.

Gwaine left Merlin looking dazed as he broke the kiss. “Let’s go, gorgeous!"

And then the madman was off, fighting his way through the crowds with Merlin’s and Arthur’s bags.

Merlin watched him go for a moment before jerking back to reality, and he gave Arthur a funny little smile as he took his hand in his own and gently tugged him away into the open. 

Arthur looked down at their intertwined fingers and smiled.

Gwaine was _toast_.


End file.
